Side 167 af 239

BOOK IX.—193-228]

In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed Their morning incense, when all things that breathe, From the earth's great altar, sent up silent praise To the Creator, and His nostrils fill With grateful smell, forth came the human pair, And joined their vocal worship to the quire Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake The season, prime for sweetest scents and airs: Then commune how that day they best may ply Their growing work; for much their work outgrew The hands' dispatch of two, gardening so wide; And Eve to her husband thus began:

PARADISE LOST.

Adam, well may we labour still to dress This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower, Our pleasant task enjoined; but till more hands Aid us, the work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint; what we by day Lop, overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind, One night or two with wanton growth derides, Tending to wild. Thou, therefore, now advise, Or hear what to my mind first thoughts present: Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind The woodbine round this harbour, or direct The clasping ivy where to climb; while I, In yonder spring of roses intermixed With myrtle, find what to redress till noon: For, while so near each other thus all day Our task we choose, what wonder if, so near, Looks intervene, and smiles, or object new Casual discourse draw on, which intermits Our day's work, brought to little, though begun

Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned? To whom mild answer Adam thus returned: Sole Eve, associate sole, to me, beyond Compare, above all living creatures dear!

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Their earthly enarge. Of these the vigilance I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist Of midnight vapour, glide obscure, and pry In every bush and brake, where hap may find The serpent sleeping, in whose mazy folds To hide me, and the dark intent I bring. O foul descent! that I, who erst contended With gods to sit the highest, am now constrained Into a beast; and, mixed with beastial slime, This essence to incarnate and imbrute, That to the height of Deity aspired! But what will not ambition and revenge Descend to? Who aspires, must down as low As high he soared obnoxious, first or last, To basest things. Revenge, at first so sweet, Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils. Let it-I reck not, so it light well-aimed, Since higher I fall short, on him who next Provokes my envy, this new favourite Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite; Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised From dust. Spite then with spite is best repaid.

So saying, through each thicket, dank or dry, Like a black mist, low creeping, he held on His midnight search, where soonest he might find The serpent. Him, fast sleeping, soon he found In labyrinth of many a round, self-rolled, His head the midst, well stored with subtle wiles; Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den, Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb, Fearless, unfeared, he slept. In at his mouth The devil entered, and his brutal sense, In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired With act intelligential; but his sleep Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn. Now, when as sacred light began to dawn